There was an old Woody Allen movie where he woke up with a headache one morning and before the day was out he had convinced himself that he had a brain tumor the size of a grapefruit. He made a doctor’s appointment which he was certain would confirm the terrible news, put all his affairs into order, and nervously waited to learn if he had more than a few weeks to live. And when he was finally informed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him, he ran through the streets of New York, thrilled that he had dodged what had turned out to be a non-existent bullet.
Well, at least Woody was willing to go to the doctor when he thought something was wrong with him, while I have to be dragged kicking and screaming, having convinced myself long ago that when it comes to medical tests and procedures and surgeries, they usually do as much harm as they do good. So, since my 20s and 30s, when I had a number of surgeries, I have avoided the world of medicine like a plague. But not too long ago, when I became reluctantly convinced that there was something even bigger in my head than Woody’s grapefruit, I decided I better make a doctor’s appointment. The only problem was that the only doctor in town I liked and trusted (Dr. Chan) had retired a few years ago, so I was left to deal with the realities of the modern medical world – and they go a little something like this:
First, you have to get a doctor, and since there apparently is very little money to be made nowadays in being a quality general practitioner like Dr. Chan was, it is very hard to find one. Then when you finally do, it is almost impossible to see him or her. In fact, they have people employed in their offices whose main goal in life seems to be to keep you from actually seeing the doctor. Anyway, if you keep trying hard enough, a doctor will eventually see you, only to try and keep you from having any expensive tests until all the other cheap methods of evaluating your problem have been totally exhausted first. Then when they finally do give you a test that will be definitive (in my case a CT scan), they don’t even call you with the results – you have to do the calling yourself. And then when you find out that you do indeed have a problem that isn’t going to be solved by taking a few pills, the real fun and games begin. It’s off to see the specialists! And every specialist only does one little thing in the big medical universe, and they seem to have no interest whatsoever in coordinating their findings with those of the next specialist, or even with your general practitioner whose office had tried so hard to keep you from ever seeing a specialist in the first place.
Anyway, after months of this little dance, I finally found out that my problem (at least the medical one) was not in my head, but in my sinus cavities, and that they basically needed to be surgically Roto-Rootered. So off I went to what is called an ambulatory surgery center, having spent the night before unable to sleep after watching a PBS program about the fact that 100,000 people die in hospitals in this country every year from infections they didn’t have when they were first wheeled through the front door.
When I arrived at the surgery center, I quickly learned that the one thing they were most concerned about was an exhausting registration procedure that had more to do with my medical insurance information and how they were going to get paid than how I was feeling. Plus, I had to play 64-questions with them about my past medical history, which is very hard to do when your head feels like it wants to blow up. But once I was back where they do the actual operating, things weren’t really too bad. Plus, I had my wife there to convince me that I would most probably live to see another day, and that if not, my kids were really going to enjoy spending the money I have set aside for them over the years in saving bonds and CD’s. Best of all, though, was that nowadays they don’t put one of those stupid-looking paper hats on your head and roll you back into the operating room while you are still awake. They just give you a shot and the next thing you know, the whole thing is over and your wife is insisting that she is going to be the one driving you home.
“See,” said my brother last Saturday night when he called to check on me, “I told you they weren’t going to kill you.”
“Well,” I replied, “it sure felt like they were trying pretty hard now and then.”
“So did they give you any post-operative instructions?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “They said I can’t blow my nose or sneeze for a month, and that I can’t ever have a good argument with anyone for at least two weeks.”
“Well, in that case, I have a little suggestion for you,” said my brother.
“What’s that?” I asked with interest.
“Don’t be forgetting it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow!”